


Mother

by mrs_schoolweek



Series: Short Stories from Fallout Universe [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallout 3 endgame, Family, Gen, LW dies, Mental Breakdown, almost poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:41:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10163255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_schoolweek/pseuds/mrs_schoolweek
Summary: Charon's mistress makes the final sacrifice. Carol is the only one to see how lost he really is and decides to take care of him.





	

Bloody soles. Wet hair. Clouds in her eyes. Soaked paper without a meaning.  
Charon didn't know why. Neither did anyone else. But nobody had the heart or the gut to stop him. He carried his mistress all the way to the Underworld lobby.  
No matter how much they had despised them in life, they had to honor her in death.

He sat there lobby for two hours, holding the girl on his lap.   
Brotherhood of Steel paladins had followed him. When they were sure nothing could be done, they stayed anyway, saluting.  
Before they couldn't have held hands in public. Now he could squeeze her against him and nobody blamed him.  
Salt water raining on her.

After five hours ghouls of Underworld had lit a sea of candles around them.   
Charon didn't let go of her. He did not cry. He did not speak. Some suggested he might have gone feral but nobody dared to interrupt him.  
They knew she had died a hero and that he had always been there with her.  
Warm flames. Silence.

After twenty hours Reilly's Rangers had joined the guard. Sea was now an ocean.  
Plastic flowers, little jewels, toys and letters surrounded Charon and his mistress like wedding gifts.  
Carol and Greta came to wash the girl and comb dirt out of her hair. Charon didn't resist.  
Soap. Candles. Tears. 

 

After two days someone decided to build a tent around the place Charon was sitting on.  
Candle light glowed through the veil, painting the girl's skin rosy and vivid one more time. Children from Rivet City had braided flowers to her hair and slid a wreath around the ghoul's neck.   
Knee-high piles of gifts (or offerings). Decaying fruits. Nobody dared to touch anything.  
In life, they had been forbidden. In death, everyone accepted their love.

After a week everybody was sure Charon had gone feral.  
Silently, passively, hopelessly feral.  
They had started to discuss, who should put him out of his misery.  
Whispers. Bullets. A decision.

Carol came between Charon and the armed group, hands spread wide.  
"Put your guns away. Now."  
"The ghoul has lost it, it would be merciful to..." a Brotherhood paladin tried.  
Carol silenced her with a gaze.  
"The boy is not feral. Put those guns away", she repeated.  
For the first time in a week, something in Charon changed. He lifted his head slowly and looked at Carol.  
"See? He is tired, he hasn't had anything to eat or drink and he just lost the love of his life. That doesn't mean being feral", she told them.  
They wanted to believe it. Nobody really wanted to kill a companion of the Lone Wanderer. Not even out of mercy. He was everything still left of her.

"Charon, dear. This is aunt Carol. Do you understand me?"   
Charon looked at him, nodding slowly.  
Eyes. Hands. Warmth.  
Mother?  
"Come on, dear. You can let go of her now. She'll be taken care of."  
Corridors. Touch. A bed.

Fairy tales. Chicken soup.   
Carol fluffed his pillow every time she came near him. Because she couldn't fluff his heart.  
For a month, Charon did not speak. He had no orders left so he did very little anything.  
Carol didn't mind. Tea. Wool socks. Winnie the Pooh.  
If he had been programmed, he could be reprogrammed.

After two months, Charon followed Carol everywhere.  
Others were concerned, assuming he might be dangerous.  
Laundry. Baking bread. Listening to radio.  
Carol knew he wasn't. Not like before.   
One Monday morning he held her hand for a while.

Blanket. Story. Kiss on cheek.  
Then, one night, Charon looked at her and asked:  
"Do you want your son home?"  
Carol hugged him.  
"You are at home already, dear."  
In the morning he was gone.

A week passed.  
Tears. Laundry. Soap.  
Carol was sweeping the floor when someone touched her shoulder.  
"Mother. Your son is home."  
Gob. Her little Gobbie. She hugged him. She kissed him. She cleaned his face with her apron. And then she saw Charon.  
Blood. Dirt. A smile.  
"My sons are home. Both of my sons are home."

A rocking horse. Bird cages. Weaved storage baskets.  
Nobody had known he was so nifty outside the range of a gun. Nobody had asked. Not even his mistress.  
Carol gave him wire. She got a tree-shaped jewelry stand back.  
He did not say anything. He didn't need to.

Charon taught Gob to use a gun.  
Gob taught him to read.  
Carol taught both of them to trust again. To sleep both eyes closed. To love.  
Warm bread. Soap. Candle light.  
The first Christmas they spent together, Charon gave Carol a rocker.  
And a hug.


End file.
